Desperate Measures
by auditoryeden
Summary: On November 3rd, 2000, Donna turns twenty-seven years old, and doesn't get to spend the day quite the way she'd like. Josh makes it up to her. Preceded by When One Door Closes. Followed by Stepping Out


"Hello?" Josh says, and if his voice is a little abrasive, well, it's his secret girlfriend's birthday and he wasn't able to do anything special for her, really. There had been two presents, one public and one private, and some flowers that he knew she liked, and a lunch together in the Mess, which meant that at the very least he'd done all he reasonably could, and she'd seemed happy enough, but the fact of the matter is he wanted to spoil her. Donna's not a woman who's used to being spoiled, and he's pretty sure any grossly sappy gestures would make her as uncomfortable as they would him, but there are things a man likes to do for his partner on special days.

He'd like to take her out. To a nice dinner, ideally, but frankly a damn bookstore would do, at this point. Donna almost never gets a non-work-related excuse to dress up, and he wants to zip her into a nice dress, banter with her as she does her makeup, watch her thread earrings into her lobes. Wants to pull out her chair and hold her hand. Wants to help her feel comfortable in the glossy, fabricated watering holes of Washington's powerful. She's worth more than five of your average Congresspeople all lashed together, anyway.

Better still, he'd like to cook her dinner. Josh is aware that Donna believes he could burn water, but the fact of the matter is that he can actually cook pretty well. For her, he'd even let a hamburger escape at a pinkish, unsanitary medium rare.

He'd like to fasten the bracelet he gave her onto her wrist, instead of leaving it for her to find in her desk drawer, without even a card to identify it as coming from him. She'd pressed a kiss to his cheek and thanked him for it anyway, but he'd watched her fumbling with the clasp and hated that he couldn't risk going to help her with it. The cheesy and otherwise-impersonal card and the public gift of a nice new pen didn't help to soothe any of his feelings of guilt.

He'd like to have brought her home, tonight, to her place or his, driven her instead of letting her take the Metro. He'd like to sleep beside her. He'd like to spread her over a bed and—

Josh shakes himself, realizes he's been staring at the cabinet above his sink for at least five minutes. A quick check of the blinking digits on his microwave cheerful informs him that actually, it's closer to seven.

And then his phone, his cellphone, rings.

Josh is not feeling charitable towards the human race. It is Donna's birthday and she is alone—seriously, actually alone, since her roommate is away on business—and he is on the other side of the city, equally alone. He may even be pining a little. "Hello?" he snaps, and on the other end he hears a small snort.

"That's not how I taught you to answer your phone," Donna's voice reproaches him, but she sounds mostly amused.

"Hey," he says, abruptly in much better spirits. "What's up?"

"Nothing," she assures him, and the little wiggly worm of terror—the one that always starts chewing on his stomach when he gets an unexpected call from a loved one—goes back into hibernation. "Just kind of lonely."

"I'm sorry," he tells her, softly. "I wish..."

"Yeah," Donna agrees, and she doesn't even try for the brittle cheerfulness she often forces when she's feeling the strain of their enforced separation. Just lets the longing and the frustration and the hopelessness seep into her tone like groundwater.

Josh sighs, rolls his shoulders. "Did you hear from your mom and dad?" he asks, drifting into his bedroom and unknotting his tie one-handed.

It's a point of amusement in the West Wing that Josh and Donna, already in so many ways inextricable partners, have very nearly the same birthday. More amusement still stems from the fact that their mothers—both their mothers, a fact that makes Josh want to laugh and cry all at once—mail both of them birthday presents in the same package, and mail those packages so they arrive nicely in between October 29th and November 3rd. Neither of them is sure whether Riva Lyman and Francesca Moss arrived at that strategy independently or by conference, but still, two years in a row now their packages have landed on Donna's desk in the same delivery. It's becoming an annual Ops tradition to have a ceremonial opening and a little joint celebration of their birthdays on November 1st or 2nd. The cards don't replace an actual conversation with one's parents, however, and as a good Jewish boy Josh is pretty damn conscious of that fact.

"Yeah," Donna answers, still sounding dispirited. "While you were on the Hill this afternoon."

"Everything good in Madison?" The buttons on this dress shirt have no real interest in being unfastened without ten whole fingers, so Josh is forced to wedge his phone up to his ear with his shoulder.

"Yeah, they're all well," Donna replies, and then, "Are you getting undressed?"

"Uh," Josh says, blankly, focused mainly on simultaneously toeing off his socks and losing his shirt without also falling over. "Yeah. Why?"

"Your voice sounded kind of odd," she supplies, and her voice is sounding kind of strange itself, a little muffled, a little throaty, accompanied by fabric sounds.

"Did you just take off your shirt?" Josh finds himself asking, his voice possibly a shade too close to disbelieving.

It takes a long moment for Donna to respond, a moment filled with various small noises that Josh can't quite place, but that are definitely giving his imagination unnecessary fodder. When she does answer, she's sounding a little breathless, and absolutely sexy. "Yes," she says, and Josh swallows compulsively. "Other things, too."

"Like what?" Josh rasps, but before she can answer, he has a moment of terrible clarity. "Are we actually doing this?" he asks, "Are you actually initiating phone sex?"

"Yes, Josh," Donna answers, suddenly impatient and brisk-sounding, "I am home alone on my birthday and my boyfriend can't come visit me; I am initiating phone sex."

"Okay, but doesn't, I mean, shouldn't phone sex violate the rules?" Josh points out, feeling both out-to-sea and reluctantly turned-on.

"What rules?" Donna asks, sounding more impatient now.

"The ones that state that we have to scrupulously avoid any activity that could lead to someone discovering the thing," Josh reminds her.

"Phone sex doesn't violate the rules," Donna declares. "If someone's tapping your phone they've probably got enough incriminating stuff already."

"And there's a thought I never wanted to have," Josh groans, kneading his knuckles into his eyes to try and quash the visions of NSA goons listening to some of those conversations in a darkened room somewhere.

"Can we drop the covert surveillance thing and get back to the part where you ask me what I'm wearing?" Donna practically whines. Josh's breath gusts out of his chest in one thudding collapse of his lungs, at the sound of her voice. It's darker, less even than usual, more pouty.

Donnatella Moss is being actively seductive, over the phone.

"What're you wearing?" Josh parrots, obediently, and fumbles for his belt as he listens intently. The buckle feels oddly chilly under his fingers.

"Well," Donna sighs, bedsprings creaking in the background, "Maybe I should start by telling you what I'm not wearing."

"That works, too," Josh agrees, panic licking at the back of his brain, warring against two years of piqued sexual frustration.

"I'm not wearing shoes," Donna starts. "Or socks. Do you wear socks to bed?"

"No." It's all Josh can do to keep his voice semi-steady. His bed creaks a little itself, as he lowers himself to sit on the edge of it, half-stripped in the dark.

"Good to know," Donna goes on. "I'm also not wearing a shirt. I know you like the blouse I had on today, I felt you watching me."

"You could wear a potato sack and I wouldn't be able to keep my eyes off of you," he tells her, closing his eyes. The blouse does look great on her, it's a shade of green that makes her skin almost translucent, but it was more the fact that she'd worn her hair down that had made it so hard for him to keep his eyes to himself.

"Again, good to know," Donna acknowledges. "It's on the floor, now. With my skirt."

Josh bites his lip, has to blow a breath out through his nose. "What I seem to be hearing here is that you're in your underwear, and not much else," he sums up, and he can picture it perfectly, too. Donna, maybe in practical white panties and a bra, sprawled on her bed, long pale limbs elegant and untidy against her dark blue duvet cover.

"Nothing else," Donna breathes into the phone, "Except..."

"Except...?" Josh echoes, just as quietly.

"Your present," she tells him. "I didn't get to thank you properly, earlier. It's beautiful."

"You're welcome," he says, softly. "I just wish I could have done more."

"I'm going to have to report it on my financial disclosure as it is," Donna laughs, "Speaking of which, I'm sort of coming around to that thing. I realized it's keeping you from spending too much money on me."

"You make it sound like I'm broke," Josh observes, dryly. "I promise, buying you a decent birthday present isn't going to reduce me to penury."

"I didn't say it would," she protests, "But it's not like sensible spending would kill you."

"Donna, I pretty much spend my paycheck on rent, which I grant you is ridiculously high, and transportation to and from work. I can afford to give you nice things every once in a while."

"And I appreciate it when you do," Donna rebuts. As she goes on, Josh has a sudden premonitory feeling, like he's going to be having this argument over and over again for years. It's not a wholly unpleasant notion. "Just...I don't want you to go overboard."

"Well, when I actually have that freedom, you can keep track and let me know," Josh tells her, working hard to keep the smile out of his voice. "So, you're wearing the bracelet and your underwear and that's it."

Donna snorts into the phone. "Yes, Joshua," she agrees, not a little facetiously.

"Okay," Josh drawls, and then he stops, his heart drumming in his chest. "How does this kind of thing work?" he asks, and yes, fine, his cheeks are pink and yes, he's embarrassed having to admit that he doesn't know how to have phone sex really, but one hundred percent of his sex life has been up close and personal until now. That can't be a bad thing.

"Well," Donna's voice is a little uncertain, too, which shouldn't be such a salve to his ego, but is. "I think we talk about what we'd like to do, and...make suggestions. I don't exactly have a lot of experience with this either."

"What I'd like to do, huh?" Josh muses aloud. There's so much he could say to that end, but he's not sure how amenable Donna is, or even really how to verbalize some of those fantasies. "If I were with you right now." He swallows, closes his eyes.

"Yeah," Donna breathes, sounding nervous.

"I'd start with your ankles," Josh tells her, letting himself visualize it, her legs all bare and pale. Maybe smooth, maybe with the prickle of a few days stubble on them; he doesn't actually know if she shaves her legs, or how faithfully. "Your feet are extra ticklish, right?" he remembers. "Or I'd start with them. But I don't want to get kicked in the face, so, ankles. I'd kiss you there, kiss up to your knees. I want to find out if the backs of your knees are ticklish, too."

"They—" Donna starts, but he cuts her off. "Don't tell me, I want it to be a surprise."

She giggles breathlessly at him, and he lies back, running his fingers through his hair and focusing on her voice. "I'd go slower, after your knees. Your skin is so beautiful. I bet the insides of your thighs are incredibly soft."

She makes a soft "oh" sound, and Josh's breathing suddenly feels labored. "Are you touching yourself, Donnatella?" he asks, and his voice has dropped about an octave, suddenly thick with arousal.

"Yes," she whispers, and the sound goes straight to his groin.

"Has a man ever kissed you down there?" Josh finds himself asking, picturing Donna with a hand between her legs, a red flush prickling up her chest and face.

"N-no," she tells him, and he sighs. "That's what I'd do next," he tells her. "I'd pull down your panties, and I'd put my mouth on you."

There's another tremulous gasp on the far end of the line, and Josh has to swallow against the ache of desire it sparks.

"Are you touching yourself?" Donna asks him now, breathless.

"Do you want me to?" he offers, and she laughs, nervously, excitedly.

"Take off your pants," she orders him. He has to set down the phone to manage it, his half-unbuckled belt requiring a little detangling, and then he's wiggling out of his trousers and stripping off his undershirt, for good measure. "As ordered," he reports, putting the phone back to his ear and trying to ignore his own erection.

"Are you—oh, God," Donna breaks off, but she sounds bashful, rather than impassioned. "Sorry, this is—"

"Just ask, Donna." Anticipation is coiling along his skin, and he knows if she told him to take himself in hand right this minute, he'd be gone.

Her voice is incredibly hushed, the intimacy of it undiminished by the crackle of phone static. "Are you hard?"

"God, yes," Josh admits, and it feels like swearing an oath to a pagan god.

"I wish I could touch you," Donna whines, low and tense. "I want—"

She goes silent for a breathless moment, and then she stammers, "I w-want….I want you to..."

"Tell me what to do," Josh breathes, and his breath is coming deep and fast now.

There's an odd, full-body tingling that comes only with the touch of another human body. No matter how aroused a person is, mere masturbation never quite manages to bring on the excitement, the thrill of an honest to God sexual encounter with a real, live person.

It's not as pronounced now as it would be if Donna were beside him on the bed, but Josh's skin is itching with anticipation, too hot and too tight. His heart is beating oddly, as though each double thud has a universal significance he can only begin to guess at.

His cock is absolutely aching.

"Touch yourself for me," Donna finally whispers, trembling and abashed, and he slides his hand under the waistband of his boxer shorts, wraps his hand around his shaft, and has to bite down on an undignified groan. "No," Donna protests. "Let me hear you."

"Fuck, Donnatella," Josh groans again, and he squeezes a little as he strokes from the base to the tip. He's hideously close already, just hearing her voice and her breath and knowing that her fingers are between her legs.

"What are you doing?" he asks her.

"I...I'm f…" Again, she doesn't finish the thought, and Josh finds himself wondering, with an itching jolt of pleasure, whether it's bashfulness or breathlessness that's keeping her silent.

"How many fingers?" he half-guesses, adjusting his mental image to include her, sinking her slender, graceful digits into her sex, his jaw tightening with tension. His hand is still on his cock; he's not risking coming just yet, not so soon, not when he already knows it'll be fast and mind-bending. First, he wants to spoil his girlfriend.

"Two," she answers, amid panting, nearly sobbing breaths. "Josh, I wish it was you, I want you in me—"

"Can you take three?" he asks, listening to the whimpering, undone voice on the line.

"Mmm—yes!" she tells him, and he has to open his eyes, stare at the unlit ceiling and take a deep breath. "Donnatella," he begins, in a low, rough voice, "Put your phone on speaker, okay? Put it on speaker, lay it down next to you. Have you done that for me?"

A moment passes, a small beep, and then the soft gray sound of a receiver being put down on fabric. "Yes," she replies.

Josh swallows and closes his eyes again. "Keep fingering yourself. Slow, though. Gentle. Can you do that?"

"Yes!"

"Good." Another deep breath, another slow, unfulfilling stroke of his cock. "I'm going slow, too. Trying to picture you riding me. Would you like that? Being on top?

"God, Josh—" she whines, but he cuts her off, "Would you?"

"Yes." He can almost picture it, her hair hanging loose around her face, swinging gently as she rolls her hips against him, grinds onto him, her breasts jiggling slightly, her nipples tempting points above him.

"Take your other hand, Donna," Josh instructs her, inspiration striking. "Touch your breast. Squeeze it for me, just gently. Do you like that?"

Her noise of assent is nowhere as clear as a "yes," more a spill of encouraging sounds.

"Okay," he says, "I want you to pinch the nipple. Not hard, not yet. Just pinch it..."

A whimper, a creaking bed sound.

"Are you still fucking yourself?" he asks, and both their voices are low now, low and intimate and almost hypnotic.

"I am," Donna tells him. "I'm so wet, Josh."

"I want you to put that third finger in now," he orders her, trying not to let her words affect him too drastically. "Slide it inside you. How does it feel?"

"It's not you," she whines.

"I know," he tells her. "I'm sorry. Does it feel good?'

"Yes."

"Pinch your nipple again. Harder, this time."

She actually moans, now, low and drawn out. "Good girl," Josh tells her, and she snorts at him. He can't help but smile in response to her derision, but listening and directing are getting to be too much. "Donna, I want you rub your clit for me."

"Shit," she hisses, and then, "Josh, I...I'm….oh, fuck, please tell me you're close."

It doesn't take him even three strokes to be shaking just as badly as her voice is, for him to be gasping and grunting and thrusting into his hand, wound and jittering. "I'm so...Donna, are..."

"Yes," she gasps, and then, "Ye—Uh! Oh, Go—Josh!"

He listens to her broken wail with maybe a quarter of his brain, the rest overtaken by the helpless flood of spasm and tension and release, his semen dripping over his fingers, his cock twitching in his grasp. "Shit," he says, quietly, like a benediction. "Oh my God."

"Fuck," Donna says, and she sounds strung-out, debauched. "That was...the best birthday present ever."

"You're telling me," Josh quips, releasing himself and peering down, examining the carnage. His boxers are already irredeemably messy, so he pulls them off, one-handed, and uses them to wipe off his hand, his stomach. "I guess we found another loophole."

"I guess we did," Donna echoes, softly.

"You okay?" The quietness of her voice could be many things, without the context of her speaking eyes or her mobile mouth to give him clues. He's not a little afraid that it's regret, or shame, or some other, equally pointless feeling.

"I'm sort of falling asleep," she tells him, and her voice certainly is drifting. "Sleepy."

Josh smiles at her voice; low and drowsy, with a rough edge that reminds him that she'd just been moaning his name for the first time. "Go to sleep, sweetheart," he instructs her, gently. "You've earned it."

"Damn...damn straight." Her words are interrupted by a yawn that goes on for fully ten seconds. "G'night Josh."

"Sweet dreams, Donnatella," he says. "I love you."

"Me, too."

There's a moment of dead air, and then Josh tells her, "You need to hang up now. I'll see you in the morning."

"Mmmph."

The call ends with a tone, and Josh finds himself staring at his cell phone, wrung out, exhausted, but happy.

They may have an inconvenient, unconsummated, potentially illegal relationship, but he's managed to give Donna an orgasm tonight, managed to share a taste of something with her he'd started to believe they'd never have, managed to do something a little more for her after all.

And they've both discovered a wonderful new way to celebrate special occasions.

Josh stays naked as he pads around his apartment, throwing his clothes in the hamper and deciding, blearily, if there's little enough food in his fridge to justify buying breakfast on the way to work in the morning. The air is chilly, his floors are frigid, and Josh doesn't feel any of it.

He's still too busy feeling the ghost of Donna's warm hands, and her breath on his skin.


End file.
